


Shapeless

by Londonlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Boarding School, Child Abuse, F/F, F/M, M/M, Science Fiction, Shapeshifting, Teen Years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:17:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Londonlock/pseuds/Londonlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson's life hasn't been his own since the day his mother gave him up to a scientific experiment. At sixteen years old, John attends a school for teenagers like himself: teenagers with the power to shapeshift. Despite his three mad roomates (Sherlock Holmes, Jim Moriarty, and Sebastian Moran,) his embarrasing shapeshifting form, and his traumatic past, John begins to finally make a life for himself. But however good things may seem, something sinister is stirring beneath the surface  of this odd institution. Between John's confusing feelings for his best friend Sherlock, a scientist who will do anything for the answers he seeks, and a secret with the power to drive students mad with grief, he will have the greatest adventure of his teen years.</p><p>If he can make it through alive, that is.</p><p>Warning: this work contains some content that may be disturbing to readers, namely, rape foreplay, discussions of rape, and child abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mike Stamford kept one eye trained on his watch, the other on the door. She had said that she would arrive at four, and it was ten after. Mike never liked to be late, and he espeically didn’t like a woman who wouldn’t take the job seriously. For all that he looked like a congenial, alimentative man, Mike had an agenda, and it wouldn’t do for him to have another failure of a woman messing with his time schedule. He had a business to run.

Her knock sounded as the second hand on Mike’s watch crested the twelve. With a long-suffering sigh, Mike called, “come in, then.”

The woman that stepped through the door looked to be at the end of her rope. Her long, gingery-blonde hair fell nearly to her waist, and though it was thick, it looked unkempt and straggling. Her eyes housed a sunken look and she fidgeted uncomfortably with the threadbare oxford  that fell over her slightly bulging belly. Mike pasted on his brightest smile. “Ah, Miss Watson. Do take your seat.”

Watson sat tremulously in front of Mike and began speaking, her words tripping over each other as they stumbled out of her mouth.

“Mr. Stamford, I’m so sorry to approach you--I mean, I don’t mean to inconvenience you and--well, I apologise for the short notice, but--”

“But you’re pregnant again.”

Watson’s blue eyes filled with tears, and Mike moved to give her a comforting pat, despite how it repulsed him to do so. This woman was trash, and he hated to touch it, but he needed her.

Well, for now, at least.

“Yes,” she said after an emotional pause and several trembling gasps. “Yes, I am. But it’s not just that, I wouldn’t come back, but--”

“But you need money. What is it this time, Miss Watson? The drink again?”

Watson flushed red, and though she did not remove her hand from Mike’s grasp, she stiffened. Her tears began to abate as she assessed the bored look in Mike’s eyes. That was good, Mike thought. He didn’t have time for human hosepipes.

“Yes, Mr. Stamford, I need money. I know the regulations, I understand the risks, but you mentioned that my first child was a complete success, and I thought perhaps my second might--”

“‘Complete success’ is a difficult word to apply to yourself, Miss Watson. However, I will agree that your first child was a match for our program.” Mike withdrew his hand at last from the whore’s clutches, sinking back in his swivel chair to clasp his hands behind his head. “I won’t deny that I am in need of women like you. Women who’s children are strong, and women who are willing to sacrifice their children for their own monetary gain.” Mike paused to assess the small gasp that Watson uttered.

“No, Mr. Stamford, you must understand, if I had any other options, I would take them.”

“How about quitting the bottle? Getting a job? I take it you’re still living off the support from the last child you donated to m--our program?”

Watson nodded shamefacedly. Mike sighed.

“Watson, you are a failure to humanity, but it’s lucky for me that you exist. Shall I read you the agreements, then?”

Watson shook her head. “I remember them from last time.”

“Even so, these things cannot be overlooked.” Mike reached into his desk drawer and extracted a form, which he placed on the table in front of himself, and if Watson eyed it with distaste, Mike chose to ignore her. He began the reading.

“The Stamford Program’s aim is to create children with abilities that, should they choose, can be rendered useful to queen and country. You have selected the shapeshifting branch of the Stamford Program. The shapeshifting branch is still in it’s genesis, therefore, all experiments are accompanied by a certain amount of risk.”

Mike pulled a pen from his breast pocket as they reached the checklist. “Are you aware that the shapeshifting serum can be fatal to infants in some cases?”

Watson swallowed. “Yes.”

“Do you understand that you will never be allowed to see your child after he/she is born?”

“Yes.”

“The compensation administered to you for your donation is significant. No further compensation will be given unless you should decide to make a second--or, in your case, third--donation. Do you agree to this?”

“Yes.”

“Do you fully surrender your child to his/her host parents and the Stamford Program upon the event of his/her birth?”

“Yes.”

“Do you promise never to make an attempt at contacting/recieving information in regards to this child after he/she is surrendered to the Program?”

“Yes.”

“Our facilities are fully equipped to accomodate you during your stay. Do you promise to refrain from any activities that could be harmful to the child before or after birth?”

Watson hesitated. “I--I’ll do my best.”

“Miss Watson?” Mike raised a chastising eyebrow.

“I--yes, of course.”

Mike passed her the paper and pen. “If you’ll please sign here. Tell me, Miss Watson, if you managed to break your alcohol fetish during your last stay, why begin again?”

Watson’s jaw set, her hand quivering as her signature curled from the pen. “You took my child from me.”

Mike clucked. “ _You_ donated _our_ child, Miss Watson. If you cannot live with your decision, I hardly accept responsibility.”

Watson shoved her form back at Mike, who took it graciously and tucked it away again. “Do you have any name suggestions for our child? Ultimately, we will decide on a name. We don’t like our children getting clues about their birth parents. However, your suggestions will be taken into account.”

Watson bit her lip. “John, if it’s a boy, Alice if it’s a girl.”

Mike smiled, his voice infused with a good deal of sarcasm. “Lovely, nondescript. Your imagination is commendable. However, the names will do. If you’d care to step out, our nurses will escort you to your quarters.”

Watson stood to go. “Mr. Stamford, my first daughter--”

“ _Our_ daughter, Miss Watson, and her name is Harriet,” Mike interjected.

Watson flushed again. “Yes, I remember. Is she...well? Is she happy?”

Mike smiled. “Miss Watson, you surrendered any information in connection with the child the day she was born. However, I can tell you that she is a perfect match for the program.”

“You’ve already told me that. Could I--might it be possible for me to get a photo of her?”

Mike considered her. “I will contact her host parents. We wish to make your stay here as enjoyable as possible.”

Watson nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Stamford. Truly, I can’t thank you enough,” she said, and if there was an undertone of spite in her expression, Mike chose to ignore it.

“Welcome back to the program.”

Mike picked up the phone the moment the door shut behind Watson and called down to the lab to get her injection ready. Then he sighed, dialed a number, and put the phone to his ear again.

“Hello, Eric, this is Mike Stamford...Well, thank you. Listen, Watson is staying with us again, and she has requested a photograph of Harriet. Would Harriet be willing to submit to a photo, do you think?... She fell down the stairs? She does seem to do that an awful lot. I might remind you that it is vitally important that our children are kept in top physical and mental condition for a proper testing environment... I am not implying anything, Eric, I’m simply reminding you to be cautious... I’m certain your wife can patch her up well enough for a photograph. It’s important that Watson understand that our daughter is being well cared for... All right, thank you, Eric.”

Mike ended the call and folded his pudgy hands in front of his mouth. Surely Harriet’s host parents would do for both Watson children... It would be best to keep the children together, and Eric was a wonderful contributor to the program. With that thought, Mike pushed all thoughts of Watson aside and turned to his paperwork.

And if somewhere, three floors beneath him, a barely concieved baby boy was being injected with a serum that would permanently alter him, Mike chose to ignore it.


	2. Chapter 2

_Eight years later. Eight years old._

John Clark couldn't remember the first time Dad hit him.

After all, there were so many. There was the time he walked through the house and forgot to take his snowboots off, and the time he left his window open during a storm, and the time he forgot to wash his hands after playing outside...

John Clark couldn't remember the first time Dad kicked him or pushed him into a wall or dragged him off his bed or pinched him or squashed him against the floor. He couldn't remember because there were too many, and he couldn't remember because he didn't want to.

John Clark could remember most of the times that Dad hit Harry, even though he didn't want to. He could remember because every time Harry screamed, John reminded himself that one day he'd be bigger than Dad, and then Dad would be sorry he hit Harry. John hoped Dad would also be sorry he'd hit John, but John didn't care so much about that. He didn't care because he was tough, not weak like Dad made him feel. John knew that if he wanted to be strong, he needed to not care so much about things that hurt. So every time Dad hit him, he reminded himself that he didn't care, and that it was a good thing that Dad wasn't hitting Harry. It was better this way.

Harry hit him when he told her that. Not hard, not like Dad. But she still hit him.

"That's stupid. You leave Dad to me. You're too little to take it, but I'm not. I'm big," She said, her twelve-year-old face screwed up in determination.

John knew that being called little was akin to being called weak, and John Clark wasn't weak. He was strong, and he reminded Harry so. "I'm big, too."

Harry ruffled John's blonde head. "No, you're little," she said. "You're my little hedgehog."

John rumpled his nose. He hated it when Harry made fun of his other form.

"No, I'm not," he said. "I'm not little, and I'm only a hedgehog sometimes. Better than being a _giraffe._ " He said.

 "Giraffes are cool. They're tall and fast and when I'm a giraffe, I'm bigger than Dad. That's why I say leave Dad to me, okay?"

"Okay," John conceded, but he hoped Harry didn't mean forever, because he wanted to make Dad sorry one day that he'd hit Harry.

But that would have to wait until he was bigger.

"And besides," Harry went on. "I lived with Dad for four years before you got here, but you've never lived with dad without me. And you'll never have to. I'll always be here to protect you."

* * *

_Four years later. Twelve years old._

John Clark could remember the day that Harry left for the Exodus project. He could remember because it hurt Harry. It hurt John, too, but John didn't care so much about that.

He could also remember because Harry had had a screaming fight with Dad the night before. John could remember huddling under the bed, but he didn't like to remember that, because it made him feel weak. John Clark was not weak. John Clark was no coward.

"I don't want to go, but not because of you. If I go, you'll just have Mom and John to beat on, and they can't take it like I can!" Harry shouted at Dad.

Then Dad hit her lots and lots, and Harry was yelling, and the walls were shaking, or it felt like they were, and John was twelve years old now, so _why_ wasn't he bigger than Dad yet?

Harry came into his room later that night, after Dad and Mom had gone to bed. At first, John was confused, because he didn't think he'd had a nightmare, so why was Harry coming to check on him?

"Johnny," she murmured softly, stirring his shoulder. John opened his eyes quickly, sitting up poised to run. He was good at that, now.

"Calm down," Harry had told him, hitting him on the shoulder. Not hard, not like Dad. But she did hit him. John squinted, able to make out Harry's features in the dim moonlight streaming through his window. "I just came to tell you that someone's going to come and take me away tomorrow. They'll come and take you away, too, when you're sixteen, but you'll just have to wait until then."

"Why?"

"How should I know? But I think it has something to do with our shapeshifting forms. They're going to take us to a special school so they can watch us. We're not normal, see. Normal people are like Mum and Dad, people who don't have shapeshifting powers."

John grinned. "I guess this means you'll get to go outside." Dad and Mum never had let them outside the wall, except for the emergency room.

"Yeah," Harry grinned, too. "I'll probably get to see other kids, too. That'll be wierd. But I'm not scared," Harry said quickly. John knew that when she did that, it normally meant that she was lying to him.

"Yeah, okay," John said. "I know you're not. You're strong, right?" John knew that saying things like that made Harry feel better.

But that night, it didn't make Harry feel better. That night, it made her cry. John felt bad for making Harry cry, so he said sorry.

_"Don't_ say that," Harry said angrily, wiping at the tears on her cheeks. "Just shut up and listen to me." Harry reached into her pajama pocket and extracted a weathered envelope. She held it out to John, who took it perplexedly. Written on the front in a curling hand was the name _Harriet._

"Dad was going to bin it a long time ago, but I rescued it." Harry explained.

John unfolded the letter, grabbed a torch off his bedside table and began to read.

_Dear Harriet,_

_I'm sure that if you're recieving this, your host parents have already explained the situation to you. I imagine you're angry with me, and that's okay. You have every right to resent me. I want you to know that I never wanted to give you up, and if I'd had any other option, I would've never signed you over to the program. I don't understand the abilities you've been given, but Mr. Stamford assures me that you are a perfect match for the program. I hope that the program is a good fit for_ you _as well. I'll never be allowed to see you, and that is probably for the best. I wouldn't have made a good mother. Know that I love you, even though I'll never get to meet you, and I know that the home you've been sent to is the correct one. I've had a phone call with your host parents, and they seem very kind. I know you'll love it there._

_I recognise that your life will be difficult, and I also recognise that it is my fault. If you're anything like your father, you're a tough little girl, resourceful, and you'll never be afraid to go after what you want. If you're anything like me, you'll be accepting and open to things that perhaps aren't normal or widely accepted. I hope you get the best of both of us._

_Be strong, Harriet, and be a better woman than your mother could be,_

_\- Julia Watson, your birth mother_

John stared at the words. Harry must know he was finished reading now, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her. His mind ran through the possibilities in his head, sifting through the shift in his vision.

"Was there one for me?"

Harry was silent. John looked up at her.

Harry bit her lip, looking uncomfortable for once in her life. "I'm sorry, John, but there wasn't. I know what you're thinking, but it's impossible. You and I look so alike...'cept I'm a ginger," she added begrudgingly.

John narrowed his eyes. "But you must've known."

"What do you mean?"

"Even without this letter. Mum must've never been pregnant with me, I would've just shown up one day. Why didn't you tell me?"

Harry's expression hardened at the accusing tone in John's voice. "Shut up, and don't look at me like that. You can't say you would've done differently, because you've never been in my position."

When John continued to glare, Harry all but lost it.

"Stop that, John, I said _stop it!_ I'm leaving tomorrow and I'm trying to give you something so that you don't feel like I'm...abandoning you! I was going to offer you the letter, but if you don't want it, then I'll have it back, thanks." Harry held out her hand, but John pulled the letter close to his chest.

"No, I want it. I'm still mad at you, Harry. But I don't want to waste time fighting if you're just going to leave tomorrow." John averted his gaze, crushing down the tears that stung his eyes. But then Harry's arms were around him, and he was crying into her shoulder completely against his will.

John quieted quickly. He was good at that, now.

"I'm sorry, John. I wish I could take you with me. But it won't be much longer before they come for you."

"Four years," John grumbled.

"Four years isn't that long," said Harry knowledgeably. "It's like mother--I mean our real mother, not mum--says in her letter: be strong. And don't ever tell Dad and Mum that you know about...Mother."

John nodded, pushing Harry away gently. 

Harry stood to go. "I'll probably be leaving before you wake up in the morning, so...'bye, I guess."

"Yeah, see you," John said.

Even after Harry left, John couldn't sleep. He thought about the letter. He thought about his mother and his mum and Dad. He thought about Harry leaving and he thought about the Exodus program. But mostly, he thought about hiding under the bed. John could remember hiding under the bed. He could remember doing it through the biggest fights, and he didn't want to hide anymore.

_From now on, I won't hide from things,_ John Decided. _I'm not John Clark, I'm John Watson._ _John Watson is not weak._ _John Watson is not a coward._

* * *

_Four years later. Sixteen years old._

"John?"

"Hi, mum."

"They'll be coming to get you in the morning. Are you packed?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, good.... John?"

"Hmm?"

"I--I love you."

"I love you too. I'll miss you."

"Dad's on the phone. He says he won't be able to make it home in time to see you off. He wants to talk to you."

"Oh, no, mum. Tell him I'm sleeping."

"I can't, he knows you're not, it's barely nine. John, please?"

"...Alright."

"Hello, John?"

"Hi, Dad. Could you hold on one second? Mum, could we have some privacy? Okay, sorry Dad, I'm back."

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry I couldn't make it home before you left."

"Like hell, you couldn't."

"John! Don't take that tone--"

"No, Dad, shut up. I know what's going on here, and you know what? It's fine, I didn't want you here, and I didn't expect you to be. And you're probably right when you think that if you came home, seeing me off might be awkward, which is why you chose not to try, I'm guessing. I won't miss you at all. And yeah, I still hate you, nothing's changed there. But if you could do something for me? Be nice to mum. She deserves better."

* * *

The car pulled through the high gates and sped up, leaving behind the house that John Watson had so often referred to as "home".

He didn't look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-beta'd and non-britpicked, so once again, all constructive criticism is welcome. I spent a few hours on a completely different idea for this chapter, but in the end decided that this would work better for the plot, so this is what you get! Thanks to everyone who left comments/kudos for the first chapter. You're all brilliant!


	3. Chapter 3

John had forgotten just how big the world was.

He had known, of course, from his trips to the ER that there was life beyond the brick wall surrounding his house. However, as much studying as he had been made to do in the Clark’s home, studies of the world or past had never been involved. As the car drove on and on and on, John had to force himself to breathe. At sixteen years old, discovering the world for the first time was mind-blowing.

It wasn’t to last, however.

“Can I get out?” John practically begged his driver as the car sped past a particularly fascinating waterfall an hour after they initially departed. “I’ll only be a moment.”

The driver shook his head, glancing at John in his mirror. “Sorry, kid. Rules are rules.”

John slumped back in his seat and didn’t speak to the driver for the rest of his trip.

After a time, John was shaken out of his fascinated stupor by a large, imposing building. John stared openly. The sheer volume of the thing set his head spinning. It was surrounded all around by an imposing fence: chain link, with barbed wire set atop. The building itself was nondescript: white and clean, but with no identifying marks other than large silver letters above the huge double doors that read “EXODUS.”

The driver pulled up to a keypad near the high electric gates and rolled down his window. John craned his neck, but was unable to see the code the man entered. He cast one last, longing look at the brilliant forest surrounding the building before his car pulled through the gates, and John Watson was locked up again.

As soon as the car had parked, John retrieved his single suitcase from the boot. His possessions were few. John didn’t tend to get attached to things. He was good at that, now.

John slammed the boot of the car shut, and the driver took off, leaving John orphaned in front of the steel double doors. Brilliant. Thought John. He glanced to his left and right and, upon finding no help available, decided there was nothing else for it. With a sigh, he hauled his suitcase toward the steel doors and gave them an experimental tug. Surprisingly, they opened easily, and John made his way through, allowing them to swing shut behind himself.

Inside, the building didn’t differ much from it’s exterior. All surfaces were either painted white or made from steel or glass. No pictures adorned the walls, and a slight chill permeated the air, despite the June warmth outside. John appeared to have emerged into a sort of entryway, though it was bare and uninviting. A corridor ran to the left and right.

After a minute of standing uncertainly and shivering (not a little bit from nerves), John decided to check outside again and to see if perhaps someone had been sent for him. He turned and pushed on the bar of the door nearest him, but it had sealed itself. Apparently, one could get in, but not necessarily out again. John spied a keypad affixed to the wall near the door, but it was useless to him, and as he didn’t fancy wandering around a strange building on his own, John set his suitcase down and took a seat on top of it, determining to wait.

John had officially stopped paying attention to his surroundings when a man’s voice echoed through the corridor. “John? John Clark?”

John looked up to see the source of the voice emerge out of the right corridor. He had a congenial face, if a bit weathered, and hair not a little bit shot through with silver. He held out a hand to John, and John stood to accept it.

“Hello there. I’m counselor Greg Lestrade. Nice to meet you.”

“Er, John W--Clark, but I suppose you know that.”

The man laughed. “Yes, I’m afraid I know quite a bit about you. And how is the leg, by the way?”

John’s gaze flickered. He didn’t like to talk about his leg. “Fine, thanks.”

Lestrade moved around John to pick up his suitcase. John made a move to take it from him, but Lestrade shook his head. “I’m not supposed to let you do any heavy lifting.”

“It’s fine, I don’t want to be coddled,” John said.

“But your leg--”

“Damn my leg!” John burst out suddenly, throwing his hands in the air. Lestrade jumped in surprise. John ran a hand over his face. “Sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Lestrade shrugged. “It’s okay, but I still have to carry your bag for you. Rules are rules.”

It was the second time that John had heard the phrase today, and he was beginning to resent it. He wondered, not for the first time, who’s rules they were abiding by, precisely.

Lestrade led John toward a lift located in the junction between the right and left corridors. As they boarded and began to rise, Lestrade began an explanation.

“I know you must have loads of questions, but most of them will have to wait, and some of them I suspect that we can’t answer. We have as many questions as you about shapeshifting, that’s why you’re here.” Though he didn't bother to correct Lestrade, the truth was, John didn’t have many questions about his shapeshifting abilities. Shapeshifting was natural to him, one of the few aspects of his life that he actually understood. It was the rest that boggled him.

“Your stay here will be fairly simple for you,” Lestrade went on as the lift doors open. John followed him out of the lift and down a corridor to the left, this one lined with metal doors along both sides of the wall. “You’ll have classes and tests, but the tests will be designed mostly to observe how your shapeshifting abilities set you apart from your average Joe.” Lestrade smiled then, and John returned it. The man had an open, casual manner that made him seem honest and soft around the edges. That didn’t stop John from being wary of him, but it eased some of his nerves for the moment.

Lestrade led him halfway down the corridor to room 221. He handed John his suitcase and finished his debriefing.

“Your roomates should be able to bring you up to speed on school schedules, and I will meet with you personally once you've settled to disucss your studies. Doors stay open during the day, but lock from the outside at night. If you need to get out for any reason, simply buzz the intercom. I should pick up, no matter what time of night it is.”

Lestrade shuffled his feet for a moment as though he still had something to say but wasn’t entirely certain of how to express it. “John,” he began slowly. “I understand you suffer from nightmares and other...special conditions. This room--” he tapped on the metal door “--already has three boys staying in it. If it’s too embarrassing, I can see if I might possibly be able to get you moved to somewhere more private.”

“No,” John said at once. “Thanks for your concern, but...I think I’ve spent enough time alone.”

Lestrade nodded, looking at his shoes. “...I’m sorry about that. If I were in charge here, things would have been very different for you.” John was suddenly quite certain that they were discussing an entirely different subject.

John grinned wryly. “Yeah,” he said, “me, too.” With that, he pushed the door open to the room and hauled his suitcase through, shutting it behind him without waiting for Lestrade to follow.

The sight that met John’s eyes was, he supposed, normal for a dorm room, though as John had never had the opportunity to meet other kids his age, he couldn’t say.

It was a wide room, with silver bunkbeds situated on opposite walls and two large sets of drawers set in between. Each bunk had a reading lamp affixed to it. The whole thing was very symmetrical and ordered.

Unfortunately, that was where order ended.

For one thing, the two boys occupying the left side of the room were cuddling closely on the bottom bunk. For another, the bottom bunk on the right side of the room--the one John assumed was to be his--was entirely covered with petri dishes, beakers, a microscope, and other scientific equipment.

And, lastly, there appeared to be a greek god meditating atop the right bunk.

Perhaps that was an exaggeration, but it was undeniable that the boy perched, eyes closed and fingers steepled on the top bunk was breathtaking. Striking ivory skin, ebony hair falling in unruly curls over his forehead, and a captivating face. His features looked almost alien, accentuated by the high, sharp cheekbones and slanted eyes. The boy did nothing to note John’s appearance at the door, and John wondered if he had perhaps fallen asleep upright.

John forced himself to avert his intense gaze from the boy and cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he said, “but I’m new here and I was assigned to this room, only I don’t see which bed I ought to take...”

The cuddling boys at once broke apart upon noticing John, the larger one’s face flushing. That one stood at once and grinned sheepishly.

“Sorry, mate,” he said, walking forward to greet John. John took his offered hand and shook it. “Didn’t see you there. Bit preoccupied, see.” The boy had a wide, genuine grin and straight blond hair that fell over his scalp as though grown there by accident. A dusting of blond stubble decorated his angular chin and long cheeks. His physique was the type that made John wary; Twice as thick as your average teenage boy, and all muscle.

“Right,” John said, unsure of how to reply to that. Just then, the smaller boy came up behind the larger one and jumped on his back without warning. The handshake broke as the larger boy stumbled backward, his grin widening.

“Aw, Jim,” he said. “Don’t scare the new kid.”

The smaller boy--Jim, apparently--twined his legs around the boy’s torso, his head coming to rest like some parody of a sycophant on the boy’s left shoulder. His head was covered with black/brown hair that tumbled, straight and long around his face. Deep brown eyes dominated his face, instantly drawing John’s attention and pulling him in, as if to swallow him. John smiled, hoping that his nerves weren’t showing.

“Jim Moriarty. Hi!” Jim said by way of introduction, offering John the hand that wasn’t currently employed at holding himself on his mount.

“John Watson,” John said, shaking the boy’s hand over the larger boy’s shoulder.

“And this is Sebby,” Jim said, nudging the larger boy’s face with his own.

“Jim,” the boy complained. “I’m Sebastian Moran,” he said, “and this idiot is my boyfriend.”

John blinked. “Right,” he said. This was all very strange.

“Which was it?” The deep baritone voice echoed across the room. John glanced at the right bunk to see that the boy there had awoken from his meditation and was examining John intently over his steepled fingers.

“Yes, that is a good question,” Jim said, hopping down from his boyfriend’s back. “Which was it?” On the ground, he was a head shorter than Sebastian, and at least twice as thin.

“Er, sorry?” John said when he realised the question was directed at himself. “Which was what?”

"I mean, was it your father or your mother?" The boy on the bed elaborated, which was lost on John.

John turned a questioning glance to Jim, who squinted into John's face. "That'll be the father, then," he muttered.

"Indeed." The boy on the bed crouched and swung himself artfully off of his bed. He wore a pair of blue plaid pyjamas and a silky navy robe over it, which fluttered as he glided to land catlike, on all fours. John had to keep himself from staring as the boy swept to his feet.

Sebastian sighed. "All right, Jim, explain."

For a moment, Jim's face remained slack and staring, eyes roving every inch of John. At Sebastian's voice, however, he perked up, clearing his throat. "Abusive father," he began, and John gasped. "evident from bruises on the arm, too big to be a woman's hand. Could've been an uncle or Grandfather, but Father is much more likely--"

The other boy, the one from the bunk, came up, crowding closer than John was comfortable with. He cut into the middle of Jim's sentence. "...Much more likely owing to the fact that you keep yourself oriented toward the exits at all times, with an unconcious habit of glancing around, which suggests that you're used to dealing with threats of that sort. Also, the fact that you flinched slightly when I said 'father'. You broke your leg--"

Jim jumped back in. "...recently enough that he still favors it, though that is partly psychosomatic, because his doctor clearly doesn't think he still needs a cast, meaning that it was most likely caused by..."

"...Something your father did, perhaps pushed you off of something. Judging by the way you keep clenching and unclenching your fists every time someone begins speaking, you've had limited contact with children your own age, or people in general, for that matter. I suppose you must've had someone to talk to, however, because you conduct yourself with a certain amount of confidence, so I'd assume a brother--"

"Sister, obvious." Jim argued.

"I say brother." Said the boy.

"Sister. He called himself John Watson, and he looks exactly like Harry Clark, sans the hair."

"I think you mean Harry Watson."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Until she gives an explanation for that, she's Harry Clark to me."

"You only call her that to spite her."

Jim grinned wickedly. "Perhaps. Anyway, the explanation is painfully obvious."

"Obvious, of course. Both siblings have a childhood--"

"--Role model with the last name of Watson, of course."

"Of course."

"Obvious."

"Obvious."

John's gaze flickered back and forth from Jim's face to the boy from the bed, who met his gaze, unwavering. "That. Was. Amazing." He finally managed to choke out.

The boy looked surprised, and John could tell that the expression wasn't one his face was used to wearing. "You think so?"

"Absolutely. Extraordinary, truly extraordinary."

The boy broke eye contact. "That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off," Jim answered, and he and Sebastian laughed.

John ignored them both. He lifted his chin proudly and stuck out his hand to the boy. "John Watson," he said.

The boy met his gaze, his eyes bright with intelligence. With a wink and a click of the tongue, he responded, "the name's Sherlock Holmes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter had me very excited, so if you spot any mistakes, it's probably due to me typing and editing like a madman. Per usual, non-beta'd, non-britpicked, so those jobs fall on you readers, should you choose to take up the mantle. Thanks to those who have commented/left kudos. You have no idea how much feedback bolsters my writing. Thank you all so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Non-beta'd, non-britpicked, so if you have any corrections, feel free to let me know. Comments are always, always, always appreciated! I will post update notices on my tumblr blog: lockedinlondon.tumblr.com.


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